The Puppet Master
by Omgjelloz
Summary: How much power can one insane corporal possess?  What if he could play God, and neither the victims nor the guilt soldier knew it?  How could the victims save themselves from a fate they couldn't reach?  All it takes is a stage…and a string.


Chapter One

The young patient rocked back and forth; he clutched his knees tight to death as he stared ahead at the white wall with wild eyes a blaze. Everything was fading, blending into a heavenly horizon,

"One. Two. One. Three. Two."

"One."

"ONE!"

He muttered continuous and inaudible words- numbers, phrases of homicidal threats, and simple gibberish. Since birth he had been questionably unstable, but the siege upon his home planet had pushed the boy over the edge of insanity. His future had been crumbled by its coming; his would-have-been betrothed was gone, and the kingdom had been overpowered and ceased to exist. His chances for power had vanished. His secured position of royalty had been compromised.

The nurse stared pitifully through the small window at the boy. For days- weeks now- he had maintained this fetal position since his arrival. Every moment rocking, every moment making the same bizarre mutters. And it never ceased. He had been such a gifted pupil. He had once seemed so promising, bound to be a soldier for the Elite Guard.

But no more.

Since that day, the day of both his graduation and initial arrest, he slowly fell from his high status to far below. It seemed as if that fight with the large eyed little boy had changed him for the worse. And slowly, Baron had lost it.

But there were subjects more ominous that pertained to patient than his mental plummet. Since hearing of the boy's ill state, Modula had taken a strange interest in him. He had called upon the nurse almost daily amongst his usuals, asking her of his mental well-being- if he still continued to cradle himself, if his speech clarity had improved, whether he had taken his soup.

The typical maiden, a matured nurse of about fifty, advanced upon her from the hall (in the usual way). She tapped the nurse's shoulder with the same two fingers (in the usual way). The aged woman informed her of the General's request, comforted the nurse, and led her away. All in the usual way.

Today's meeting was no different than any other. The General pressed himself back into his seat as the nurse came forward and proceeded as usual.

How was the patient?

Fair, for his state.

Any improvements?

None. He still continues to cradle.

And his speech?

Still incoherent. But his mumbles are slightly more audible.

What does he speak of?

Numbers, sir. He seems to have an obsession with counting.

Does he still speak of the toys?

Yes. He cries for them every hour or so. He threatens to kill unless  
he receives the new ones.

Does he attempt to follow through with this threat?

Yes.

The dictator adjusted himself in his seat. He called upon one of the various Mutraddi minions beside him and ordered to bring out "the object". The servant left, respectively, and there was a misplaced  
silence between the General and the nurse for some time. Nonetheless, the creature returned, and the General received his awaited prize.

He opened the box gently and beckoned the nurse forward.

"My dear Madame, come forward and judge these trinkets for the young man. I assume they are suitable."

She bowed and came forward. The nurse peered into the box. She blinked twice, surprised at what sat below. Inside lay a miniature stage, exquisitely handcrafted, fit for dolls the size of puppets (two of which lay beside it). She looked up at Modula. Her bright eyed gaze requested in silence to hold them.

"You may touch one, if you like."

She nodded and gently removed one from the box. It was small, no greater than ten inches at most. Its hair was composed of black yarn, which fell near to its shoulders before turning out, concealing the majority of its dark portrait. Its eyes were marvelous, so large that they seemed to absorb the majority of its face, and it wore a miniature silk uniform similar to that of an Elite corporal.

The nurse gently placed the poppet back into the box and, in return, took out the other. It was smaller, by an inch or so, and more feminine in its nature (though not by much). The hair, yarn as well, was golden, and it peeled back into the form of a turnip. Small freckles dotted its cheeks, and it was adorned with a rich purple dress that fell to the ankle. Winnie gasped, realizing its impersonation.

"It's...the princess..."

Modula's face hardened more so than usual, and he roughly tore the doll out of her hands before throwing it back into the crate.

"Yes. It is."

...

At that very moment, across the unfathomable lengths of a rift gate, a girl with golden hair like a turnip fell to the kitchen floor. She clutched her sides in bruised agony. A boy, about the same age as her, rushed into the room. He knelt down beside the young girl.

"Are you...okay?"

"I...don't know." 


End file.
